


Egoist

by 57821



Series: Into My Phantomverse [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afro-Caribbean Erik, Gen, being a phantom stan is just constantly projecting on Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/57821/pseuds/57821
Summary: Erik and his relationship with his hair.
Series: Into My Phantomverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002387
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Egoist

**Author's Note:**

> written for Blacktober day 2: most relatable character

He doesn't pay much it attention. Besides it gives him more that he already has enough of. So he keeps it short, clipping at it with wonky movements, knowing it looks twice as awful but it's better than visiting a barber (not that his Manman would ever allow him to do so though). 

When he's in _that place_ , there is no room for maintaining it. So it grows along with him in those years of his stolen youth. 

Then it's over, it's done and he's gone. He's free. Or at least he thinks so. 

Setting off to attempt to seize control of his life, taking odd jobs along the way but along with it comes his predicament. Not knowing much else to do with it, he saves and makes his biggest purchase yet (besides that cello he's saving up for). Following careful instructions, sectioning off clumps with a rubber band in hand and careful not to burn himself, he feels the press and heat on his neck, the sizzle of hair invading his senses. Yet in the process finds himself unable to care. 

At least one factor of the staring will disappear.

* * *

"Does your mama ever comb it?" Elayne brings it upon herself to ask him one day, reminding him of how young he really is.

He does not answer.

They see each other often, and in her part she often makes small talk under the naive guise of her believing him to be a schoolboy, something he cannot bring himself to do so in return. Prone to illness that keeps him stumbling through her doors and it being the cheapest apothecary this side of the city, he tolerates it. Or maybe he really does crave human contact, something he'll never be able to admit to himself.

With a nod, she continues, "Our types are fragile but more so is yours. You need to moisturize it. Don't forget the water. Water is important." 

He listens carefully at that.

"Now you soak it, then you take some olive oil and run it through it." She rubs her fingers together as if liquid were passing through them. "With a comb, fingers, anything." 

"Come tomorrow. I've got something that can help." She calls out as he turns to leave. 

Before exiting with that glass bottle of medicinal herbs in his hands, he tips his head at her in acknowledgement and she grins at him. 

Then he's off. 

The next day, a pick fashioned out of carefully carved wood and metal rests in between his fingers.

"Sometimes someone from the colonies passes through. Thought I'd replicate it."

Just as he's about to reach into his pockets, he hears her say, "Don't worry about it."

Pausing, then looking up at her, at the lines of her thin and worn face, a look of understanding plastered on her. 

"Thank you." The words form on his lips shakily.

Waving him off, she tells him it's no big deal, saying the same old things like, "Take care now and stay safe." Leaving the shop with a warmness he hasn't felt in a while.

Once back in that drab, run down apartment, he puts himself to good use. Clumps fall into his hand as he runs through his hair, wetted and oiled. It's still quite damaged but the texture has improved with Elayne's advice. Scissors in hands long grown adjusted to this, no longer shaky and awkward. 

Dragging down a dark strand in between his fingers just at the level of his eyes, he cuts.

* * *

One day, he finally summons the courage to do it. Selling the hot comb to pay for the journey ahead, snipping away at the damaged ends and leaves it, everything all behind in turn with his miserable existence in Paris.

Traveling further and further East, his time spent in Russia is a fruitful yet painful endeavor. Curls rendering themselves brittle and dry, an almost rubbery texture, no matter how much he tries in reviving their glory. After a talk with a familiar face, Mademoiselle Ada, a woman as same as him, who had lived and breathed freely in different soils, they came to the conclusion that the cause of the damage was in the properties that the water contained. Limiting his wash days further, he continued contact with her in the fairgrounds until his next step down South. And at times, he almost misses her.

Arriving in Hà Nội, his time spent there is hazy and chaotic, his spirits falling lower and lower, the exasperation melded to his psyche bubbling up to the surface. In his rare moments of calm, he takes to learning the tricks of women and their secrets of maintaining the hair. Baked through leaves of grapefruit, dried bồ kết and aromatic leaves, all boiled and filtered to create a shampoo, conditioning it with lemon to smoothen the hair. Lime, coconut oil and grapefruit peel. A regular part of the routine here, keeping the long flowing black waterfalls of hair of women shining and healthy. Gloom met with studying the architecture, outlining it and dreading casual conversation in the event of a curious person observing a masked man sketching away at his notepad.

Tensions rising, he takes his leave and finds his way in the beginning of something bigger that he could have ever expected in the port city of Bandar Abbâs. Finding those like him more often than not, not just being a rare occurrence and he just almost believes he can fit in. In the markets, he finds that a blend of coconut oil, argan oil and shea butter are pricey but friendlier to him so when he can he stocks up. Talents recognized for the first time in his life other than when on display, he snatches the opportunity as fast as he can in his arms and he's on his way to Sari then things go down South very very fast.

Years fly by and then he's back once more in France with the help of a hand with far too much time on his hands and generosity that he cannot utterly stand.

* * *

"You're so tender headed." Christine begins, tying up half of his hair with a tie and easing the comb down the middle and Erik shivers. "I've barely even begun."

"What?" Erik retorts, biting the inside of his cheek, attempting to hide his discomfort. "What on Earth is that?"

And she just laughs in response and he feels his cheeks warm, wanting to be in on the joke too. Then feeling her drag down the metal comb from the middle once more, he flinches.

"I'm being as gentle as I can be, _relax_." She coaxes him. Readjusting his position, she continues. "You're lucky I'm not like Mama. I love her but when she gets the job done, she does it alright."

"Hot water dries the strands, with cold it purifies the hair," Christine's words taking him back to Elayne. "Remember that."

"Have you ever noticed how hard it is?" He asks. "To do it by yourself?"

"Yes." Taking in his silence, she adds, "Don't worry about it though, Baba always said that it was meant to be maintained in community."

Lips pursing into a thin line, thinking of Bandar Abbâs, Erik smiles.

Community, huh?


End file.
